Thursday 28 October 2021

Dear Sergeant Yobbo, DRAFT



Mark Kennedy AKA Mark Stone, NPOIU Lynn Watson (alias), NPOIU Marco Jacobs (alias), NPOIU Jim Boyling AKA Jim Sutton, SDS Simon Wellings (alias), SDS Robert Lambert AKA Bob Robinson, SDS John Dines AKA John Barker, SDS Mark Jenner AKA Mark Cassidy, SDS Carlo Neri (alias), SDS "RC" (alias), SDS Gary R. & Abigail L. (aliases), NPOIU Rod Richardson (alias), SDS Mike Chitty AKA Mike Blake, SDS Matt Rayner (alias), SDS Jason Bishop (alias), SDS Dave Hagan/N81, SDS Roger Pearce, SDS Andy Coles AKA Andy Davey, SDS Rick Gibson (alias), SDS Christine Green, SDS Douglas Edwards (alias), SDS John Graham (alias), SDS William Paul 'Bill' Lewis, SDS Alex Sloan (alias), SDS John Clinton (alias), SDS Bob Stubbs (alias), SDS Dick Epps (alias), SDS Michael Scott (alias), SDS Dave Robertson (alias), SDS HN348 / 'Sandra', SDS Dave Jones (alias), SDS / NPOIU James Straven / Kevin Crossland (aliases), SDS Rob Harrison (alias), SDS Jim/Jimmy Pickford (alias), SDS Peter Francis AKA Peter Daley or Pete Black, SDS Vincent Harvey, SDS


To be the common voucher for the character of all the spies & informers in the employ of government

from agitated districts, & not only from a justice, but from a master of justices, sober, loyal, attached to the constitution, & ready to uphold it by any means necessary are sacrifices, legislation & British Standards 


O wall coils cut to an (e.g. human) warmth 

now dog-legged &hole stricken

I sing aloud from this edge & in your light 

Dear Sergeant Yobbo, laid doggo

a hurt leg trembling wild  

then your own body trembling & shaking

to annoyance every effort in controlling the shaking

not the pain. The pain isn't even there,


your brightest human warmth 

assuming like other members 

the identity of a body who had died young 

& be made into braids of armaments 

& worships invisible now through the spy gash 

you unmoved clinking ha'porth 

made your mouth to not smiling 

I speak through the Special Demonstration Squad 

suds using an alias of a stolen life

a name of a deceased child 

Sergeant Yobbo, O hole-strickened hook reaped 

tight my own itch 

a wraith spiral flickers my face twice

the hole of this wall! O

O I speak your mouths exit a bewitched helve 

sunk a knuckle to sunder of thorn by name 

by night you have taken this poor duffer

stuffed mother & child on venal breads made nothing 

Dear Sergeant Yobbo, 

O you have put in the cub once

got up the spout twice, the stick knocked thricely 

in the wind keenly this here; a policeman's child 

to assume squatters' rights over the unfortunate's identity for the next four years

the identity of a boy who had died young

under evensong of a life misspelt a life mislaid 

& love of you 

Sarg Yobbo, ,

coughing, screeching filthy stuff

a life entwined code weaving out a spy gash

infiltrate & debase of each wastlings 

now forsworn to be a forged a life sundered 

in one's own' death certificate-- 


  • Frederick Forsyth’s novel 'The Day of the Jackal' explains how to acquire in the name of a dead person & the practice has proved popular among those who would defraud the benefit system or who wish to travel abroad incognito.


of personhood avoid infant death or people aged over 16

with my hand set down on Mr Yobbo, 

O how many are in your creation & unreceived 

red furrows for me this broken lamp emails trails has expired 

delivery to the following recipient failed permanently

so to blood caught & O& to what many consider actual blood 

I give curses re-emerged/ dead votes, 

dad a shaft of light stricken white 

since you ruined my life Sarg Yobbo, 

closed to skin of mine swathed in vela 

to be held in covers & sheets

baby to be made into blackjack or baton upon this cosh

my name born in reverse of you a dead child 

or I (I) will break it open &

within a mouth of rolled & folded papers

form an improvised weapon of beermats, 

horse brasses, polo mints, shoelaces 

& boots squashed to form a cosh

here remaining a stealth weapon 

Sargin to create a handle haft

& rounded head at the fold the child 

did set it down by name 

there a promise pass'd speak long-lost

shy blotted shilled of memory raked with holes 

& a secret unit clawed to grapnel nail

of a boy is dead is the whole data,,, irrational ,pellet, 

&I in this foisted bloodrot hail upon

Sarg Yobbo, 

let sorrow sway this undid my name 

& made me at St Catherine's House a grappling hook 

It is conceivable that a hostile enquiry into the details you have given may result in you being presented with your own death certificate.

Yobbo spawn 

is boy to dog

a foul for what I speak

Do you remember when you fingered my lifehole!

made of me strange & want nothing 

to make all good formless of touch 

these arms of due furbish in homestead 

so sighs & tears cover me 

O prodding strange infinite 

haloed & shuddered 

to hatred if it does not invert 

into love through & piercing laughter

who chokes for which all masks are intended 

as tender slanting edge of ‘morrow 

to incise a name a single blessedness to give curses

for 36 yobbos of philharmonic pitch

sang out Sarg, 

kiss my mouth of a boy inverted spells yobbo

itch unfaithed in Margaret Thatcher’s grain

bled to sink a knuckle of eviled blame

as to end end! to end life! to end wishes! break now

to high heavens lullaby roughcast & strung up 

once my name upon before

was an oath of twisted faces 

O each a year a year blunted working light

to brink finally, the path of gaps in between them; they were like little tapers, flickering & feebling to wretched harmony


&dead of wall’s chink lisped through

you & your tarnished places 

as to be undelivered permanently beneath your defenses

O dear last night under a full moon big & bright

some nice person decided to smash my car windows 

& steal a single Bowers

& Wilkins 602 speaker (series 3 - black)

a Technics record bag containing a Rotel amp 

& various cables & cds & my favourite green jacket

that rites tryst a brooding history of blood cake 

on this hateful evening in my eye marveled England 

on snakes breathe,, I would rather die than become a Rose scab

into empty space, to empty shells of insects, everlasting

underneath a bandstand dendritic cell are memories

ploughed up to waiting world 

Thank heavens for the Earl of Cardigan 

My people, our people.

Our friends, our good, generous, warm,

brave, innocent, loved friends


arising out of Wills, Trustees & co-oxcart prophecy  

to suspend the symbolic order 

in that glass hole I like to imagine 

Christopher Noland, the Last Tory 

crying into empty space, to empty shells of insects, everlasting.


He wears periwinkle cufflinks, 

black pants, & a herringbone waistcoat. 

He sips at a flask of tea

His soothing air of self-command 

is not an affectation; it is borne out of a sense of duty

he counts his steps with a whisper 

‘What would David Lean do?’ 

he asks himself rhetorically. No

n..NNo answer is forthcoming from the dead

yet he is charmed, momentarily, by his interior accent.

We’ll go aerial.” 

He once wept while reading Hobbes at a boarding school of military persuasion taught him that life is nasty, brutish, & short. 

Out there, he remembers, in the fallen world

people are mired in a war of all against all. 

‘There is no society . . .’ a dim voice echoes, somehow incepted into his mind….. 


there will always be some who suffer misfortunes 

for which they cannot provide 

& they should be helped 

by relatives, friends, voluntary groups, 

& as a last resort of course by the State 

David Hart, 1984


O chief insect your name laid arsenic on Brook Street for divine violence the banner was shattered

chilblain scolding & railing against

childers under the average cost of living death in the UK 

is poetic justice!  O & you do not know those names


Is the function or regulation essential? If it is, can it be undertaken by the private sector? If not, is it being administered efficiently & in a way most likely to have a benign effect on society as a whole rather than on those who are administering it?


Sarg Yobbo, desiccated on evening sick 

kissed a stump to be within a budding grove sworn

eating old el Paso & off fleshes red for reds sake alone

& hopeless in thrums curled up 

on an L shaped couch  

woe twisted silent Catching the Sergeant’s eye I. 

&I. I Have Always Worked Hard